


To the Light

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, The Railroad, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5922310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The light is blinding.</p><p>G7-81 grits her teeth, juts her chin. To escape the Institute to be taken by raiders was-- not part of the plan. But damned if she’ll go out like a candle snuffed. Better to rage against the dying of the light.</p><p>(Or: Glory and Desdemona find comfort with one another.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Light

**Author's Note:**

> I was fortunate enough to have two very wonderful betas, but in full disclosure: I am not trans and any errors, misrepresentations, or unfortunate implications are my own fault. Constructive criticism is welcome.

The light is blinding.

G7-81 grits her teeth, juts her chin. To escape the Institute to be taken by raiders was-- not part of the plan. But damned if she’ll go out like a candle snuffed. Better to rage against the dying of the light.

Sharp-edged copper in her nostrils. Battery-acid bile coming up her throat.

The hail of bullets, gunpowder heavy in the air-- this is not rescue, this is another gang of raiders.

So when she blinks the stars and novas from her eyes-- she finally dares to hope.

“We are the Railroad. Welcome aboard,” says an auburn-haired woman. Eyes dark, face lined with old worries, regrets for actions (and inactions) taken.

Swearing was forbidden at the Institute.

So of course G7-81’s first words are, “Fuck yeah.”

* * *

 

G7-81 refuses the memory wipe. These few memories she already has-- terrifying, haunting, bewildering as they are-- are all she can truly claim.

(She will rage against the dying of the light, carry her darkness in her as talisman, token and protection. She will never allow herself to be trussed up, held captive, _dehumanized_ ever again.)

“I want to keep fighting,” she says. Her borrowed laser pistol weighs solid, heavy, grounding. Smells like ozone and death. Safety, for a given value of safety. Reminds her too much of the Coursers. Sears a light that burns.

“Then you need a name,” says Desdemona. Like Dez’s name isn’t a pseudonym. Like ‘Drummer Boy’ or ‘Deacon’ aren’t just as obviously fake.

G7-81 runs her tongue over her teeth. Tastes her sharp edges, lets the danger fill her veins like wine.

“Glory.” For there is no joy in broken hallelujah, but she can rock the very heavens.

* * *

 

Desdemona gives her a minigun, and it grounds her like certainty.

 _This_ is ballistics, pure and simple. Poetry and sharp mathematics in motion, a jubilant middle finger to the Institute’s more ‘advanced’ methods of slaughter.

Pretty brass rattle, grit and glitter and gunpowder pressed in the seam of her hand. There is safety in numbers, in the spit-fire of bullets. _Rate of fire_. Repeats it like a mantra, like a prayer. Litany against the dark, her barrel’s heat-glow to light her way.

Gives her weight. Makes her a _heavy_ in Railroad parlance.

* * *

 

She learns Rail signs, warnings and aid and hidden caches. Learns the lantern-- the symbol of the group-- will lead her home.

“When things look darkest, follow the light,” Dez says.

Glory snorts, spits up the pretty platitude. “Covert ops, secrecy and hiding. Sounds like shadows to me.”

Dez smiles, smoothing away lines of worry. Adds new wrinkles to her face, crow’s-feet around her eyes and parentheses around her mouth, like answers to unasked questions. All part and parcel of her, reflect the tapestry of her experience.

(Glory thinks how few synths acquire these signs of aging. Scars, damage to the chassis, yes-- not age. Despite the child-prototypes.)

“We operate in the penumbra, not true darkness,” Dez says, pulling a battered packet of cigarettes from one pocket. The brand’s tattered, worn to unrecognizable, but Dez has never been particular about her poison. Uses her thumb to flick a cig out, offers to Glory.

Glory accepts, from habit-- synths were never allowed to smoke. Didn’t mean that cigarettes weren’t a form of barter, independent of the Wasteland caps or Institute credit system. Never developed a taste for this particular vice, but knows enough to accept the camaraderie when Dez lights her cigarette. Dez cups her palm around the glowing tip, shields this little bud of warmth.

* * *

 

Glory laughs, mouth thick with bourbon, charred caramel and cinnamon wet in the back of her throat. Another forbidden pleasure, another sin boldly taken.

She whoops loud and raucous, glorious with blasphemy. “Every freed synth from here on out, drink’s on me!” Sweeps the room with the weight of that promise. Catches Desdemona’s eye, grins. Because there’s promise in those eyes too, if she dares. If she follows.

‘Follow the light,’ she’d said.

But Desdemona’s eyes are dark, and there is danger in sentimentality.

* * *

 

The Predictive Analytic Machine is beautiful, complex algorithms and probability modeling wrapped up in a deadly Assaultron chassis. Terrifying shell, even more terrifying potential in her software.

Useful as PAM might be as another heavy, she’s even more useful for long-term strategy. Feed her enough information, control the variables, and she could calculate outcomes for any scenario.

Assuming she agrees to work with the Railroad.

Dez talks greater good, destiny and humanity. Tries to appeal to the brightest light in these dark hours.

Carrington talks numbers, analysis. Tries to explain the logic behind the heart, reason guided by conscience.

PAM remains unswayed. Why should she care what arguments two more humans have to offer?

But Glory has skin in the game, or at least a synthetic polymer crafted to simulate epidermis. But for the grace of God and all His little glitches, she could have been an early Gen 1 or 2 synth, capable of all the same sentiment but unable-- unallowed-- to express it in a way that reassures the humans. She could have been just as eccentric as Tinker Tom, but with whirring bolts and peeling chassis. Easier to dismiss as ‘robot’ than accept as ‘person.’

Glory’s saving grace is her skin, her speech. Her ability to pass.

(And what greater cruelty for a creator to grant free will, the ability to _think_ oneself self-determinate and equal-- to fool oneself with one’s own programming-- than to deny the very gift they granted?)

So Glory talks with PAM.

End of the conversation: PAM joins the Railroad.

* * *

 

Patriot’s their man on the inside. Or person. Glory figures he must be human though. Any synth caught using a terminal would be wiped. Risk’s too great, no matter the courage. No matter the lives saved.

For a human though-- significantly less sacrifice. Easier access and minimal risk even if caught.

She wants to celebrate with Dez, with Tom. But no matter how they talk about the Railroad--

History’s written in blood. Pacifism is a luxury of those least affected by inequality. Those fighting for their soft _feelings_ and guilt rather than the right to exist.

She’s happier to have Patriot on their side than not, but when the bodies hit the ground (and they always will) Glory will be watching. See how well their inside man’s principles hold up under gunfire. Whether he fights or turns timid dove.

(But Desdemona’s eyes are dove’s eyes-- not for peace, but flight. Freedom. Dark and beautiful.)

* * *

 

And she follows through the catacombs, to the ruins of the church. Because this is blasphemy, to think she’s equal to a human-- so what’s another blasphemy on top of that?

No other creation has dared to question their creator, to ask: _Why_.

So when her mouth meets Desdemona’s, when she pushes Desdemona’s hips against the splintering wood pew, when Desdemona meets her mouth with eager tongue and lips and edge of tooth--

It rocks something deep, fundamental. Dim shadows all around, their muffled gasps and moans like echoes of shocked parishioners. Desdemona twists her hand against the back of Glory’s neck, snakes down past the heavy collar of her armored jacket-- holding, not controlling. Pressure without weight. Every choice still hers, every possibility still open.

“Glory,” she says, eyes dilated, pupils swollen to immense pools of dark. “Before we keep going. Need to tell you-- my parts are-- little different than most women’s.”

Glory answers with a mash of lips, hungry, devouring. Like consuming flames. “Don’t care. Don’t want ‘most women.’ Want _you_.”

Church-dust thick in the air, dust of a faith long-forgotten. Glory tastes this moment, bright and burning. Tastes Desdemona, relishes the salt and savor, the edge of dirt and whiskey-soaked breath. Presses forward, grinding down Desdemona’s leg. Not surprised by the answering swell from Desdemona, cups Desdemona’s erection and kisses her neck. Sucks hard, sweet, sour-- washes down with kisses, nips a line down Desdemona’s collar.

“Fuck, Glory. Feel so good,” Desdemona moans, lifting her thigh to push back up against Glory. Not content to be passively ridden, her hands roaming. Wandering, flickers of sensation and rough-edged nails, callused fingers and a promise writ in skin. New prayer, new scripture on this temple of the body. “C’mon Glory, want to make you feel good too…”

Friction, heavy fabric rubbing against Dez’s breeches. Slick, Glory’s arousal spilling, soaking her worn undergarments. Heat-- definitely heat, their breath ghosting in the air. Glory tightens her grip on Desdemona’s shoulder, bears down-- sinks them both against the pew, adjusts the angle so she’s going, she’s coming, she’s--

Rocking on her toes, body spilling into Desdemona’s embrace. Limbs turned liquid, melted-wax and languid.

Desdemona kisses her soft and deep, smoke wound like incense on their breath. Glory kisses back, lips traveling path from mouth to ear, nuzzles behind the hollow to press benediction on her skin.

“What d’you want? Grinding? Hands? Mouth?” Glory pants, voice slurred with want and whiskey. With dizzying memory of all the years she’s been free-- untold constellations, vistas unimagined in the Institute’s sterile confines, strange beauty of a bloodbug’s wings caught iridescent against the setting sun and the sharp-edged grace of the city cutting the sky.

But she’d trade the entire wealth of stars for the unlit lantern back at HQ and Dez’s arms warm about her.

Dez licks her lips, wine-soft and golden in the light. “Hands. Don’t want to stop kissing you, Glory.”

So they work in tandem, impeding as much as aiding one another when Glory fumbles at Dez’s trousers and somehow Dez’s thumb gets in the way, when Dez finally undoes the zipper and Glory twines her hand under Dez’s shirt, caresses the soft swell of belly and the hard edge of hip. Desdemona laughs, starts half-hearted apologies for her figure, but Glory kisses her nose, her lips, her collar. Breathes want in her ear.

“You’re beautiful,” Glory whispers, thanks to whatever higher power might be watching. Loves her generous padding and thick thighs, hard muscle beneath-- planning operations at HQ may not have the physical demands as field work, but the world is precious with more softness. And when Glory reaches under Desdemona’s underwear, she tilts her head. Listens, with body as much as ears, when Desdemona says how she likes to be touched.

“Thumb on the tip, like that,” Dez murmurs, and Glory obeys. Wraps her fingers, strokes and pulls. Firmer, down by the base when Dez says. Finds a rhythm, nibbles at Desdemona’s neck and mouth and sets pace with her hips. Dez talks her through, more instructions until the noises melt to body-talk. Sighs and symphony, moans like gospel.

Glory marks her with teeth and lips, tugs Desdemona’s scarf aside so these brands won’t see the light. Not for shame, no-- because even now, even with shadows slanted all about and light dappled across their skin, some things remain best when hidden. A treasured secret, buried in lines of laughter and star-lit eyes. Nibbles, sucks-- bites to bruise, pull blood to skin and let it bloom.

Soon enough and Dez is gasping orgasm, release, muffles her cry into the bend of Glory’s neck. Together, bodies twined. A hot spurt on Glory’s hands, drips past her knuckles as she pulls her hand from Dez’s trousers. Glory tilts her fingers up, touches her tongue to it. Like taking sacrament, eyes locked with Desdemona’s. Salt with a hint of alkali, thick in her mouth.

Desdemona kisses her, probes gentle with her tongue. A light press of lips, a soft parting without goodbye, and she kisses Glory’s hand. Licks each finger, gathers in the folds between knuckles and sucks her clean with soft pops of her mouth.

* * *

 

Much as the Railroad prides itself on compartmentalization and secrecy, individual stations live in one another’s pockets. Same faces, in and out. Personal histories remain personal, as secret as you choose to keep them, but personal presents-- ah, those are a different matter.

Desdemona deserves better than to be a secret. She deserves to be lit up, beautiful and incandescent. Lights a fire in Glory’s chest, radiant warmth that carries her through lone missions. Always gives her something to come home to.

But in lieu of lighting the night and shouting her heart from every rooftop, Glory lets it light her face and fill her voice. Gives status reports and updates to Desdemona-the-leader, then tugs Desdemona-the-lover to the escape tunnel, the back mattresses, anywhere away from the half-dozen watchful, indulgent eyes that are in HQ at any given moment.

Because their bodies are prayer and the light is fleeting.

* * *

 

The Brotherhood found them.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Blood. Sinew. Bone.

Metal armor and artificial shells, so many chassis around that basic framework.

Joint and cartilage-- mild strain in her shoulder as she hoists her minigun. Rest of HQ and the new heavy are taking care of the squad that came through the escape tunnel, but Glory, Angel of Death, will guard the catacombs.

For all her constructed nature, for all the fact she was crafted rather than born and that she has synth parts and inorganic alloys making up her interior--

She hurts. She bleeds.

Tastes minerals on her tongue. Copper. Trace elements.

Hurts, hurt-hurt-hurt. Rosary of pain, reminds her she is still alive. The dead cannot hurt. The dead cannot stand sentinel.

(The dead cannot love Desdemona, wrap her in words and hands gentler than Glory can ever muster.)

Not a single Brotherhood soldier makes it past her, though she slumps heavy against the wall. Limbs dead. Conservation of energy-- if she sits, can she still fire her gun?

Relieved when footsteps come behind her, too light and desperate to be Brotherhood. At least the Railroad survived.

She coughs her status report, something rattling in her chest, twisting in her belly. Gears, broken springs, electricity and tangled gut-- why did the Institute craft them to feel pain? Why not take small mercy on the people they built?

Eyelids heavy, world spinning. Light, dark. Dark. Dark. Patterned shadow and lurking nightmare. She’s supposed to follow the light home. But there is no light, no hope. Bleeding out, mouth stained with mortality.

Glory whispers, “Isn’t there supposed to be a light?”

“Like fuck’s sake it’s your time,” Desdemona growls, and there are hands-- Glory’s swimming in hands, so many. Ungentle, but not unkind. Coat opened, wounds cleansed-- sting of antiseptic, a jab of Med-X and a stimpak directly into the belly. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ go into the light.”

Light’s supposed to take her home--

\--but home is Desdemona’s arms, Desdemona’s warmth. Old catacomb-dust and nicotine-ash, the smell of want and longing.

This is home.


End file.
